


The Silver Bridegroom

by Snowgrouse



Category: Original Work, Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Androgynous male character, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Clockwork - Freeform, Crack, Dark Het, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fucking Machines, Heroine/Villain, Het and Slash, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Humour, Light BDSM, M/M, Magic as sex aid, Married Couple, Middle Ages, Muslim Character(s), Oral Sex, Other, POV Bisexual Character, PWP, Queer Het, Rimming, Romance, Sex Robots, Switching, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering, automatons, heterosexual anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jaffar lifts the automaton's chin and admires him as he used to admire his own mirror image as a youth, but this is so much better, so much more fulfilling than a mere reflection. It is because he is gazing upon an improved version of himself--yes, he has dared improve on God's creation, the piquant arousal only blasphemy can bring now curling up his spine, licking at his groin. He has taken the liberty of erasing a few wrinkles, of straightening the teeth a little, of making the doll's hair a little thicker, fuller: and what surprises Sarosh hides underneath his robes, oh--Yassamin shall find out soon enough.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Pleased with himself, the image of himself, Jaffar chuckles, unable to resist the temptation of a kiss.</i>
</p><p>Jaffar builds a silver replica of himself as a birthday present to Yassamin. But it would be foolish of him not to test the doll first, would it not? Only to make sure everything is in working order, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silver Bridegroom

**Author's Note:**

> Not really part of any of my previous Jaffar/Princess 'verses, but they are a happily married couple in this nevertheless. And Jaffar is, surprise surprise, not only a hopeless nerd but also a hopeless slut. Thanks to acitymadeofsong for the beta.

He has prepared the greatest of gifts for the woman he loves: namely, himself. He traces the automaton's profile, an exact replica of his own in silver, the corners of both their mouths curling up in a conspiratorial leer. 

It is Yassamin's birthday in but an hour, and all is ready, the work of months having reached its culmination tonight: the four-armed, silver Jaffar has been decked out in the garments of a groom, garlanded, his every cog and wheel anointed with fragrant oils. He sits within the centre of this innermost of Jaffar's chambers, a halo of lamps illuminating him as if he were a heathen god. And worship him she shall, Jaffar knows this, but he has to be sure. He touches the automaton's mouth with two fingertips.

"Speak, brother mine."

"What is thy wish, so that I might fulfill it?" the automaton replies in a voice soft, melodic, in Arabic cleaner and clearer than his master's ever could be. "Pray, tell me, Mistress."

Jaffar chuckles and cups the doll's cheek. "I think I shall leave that in."

"What is thy wish, Mistress?" the doll asks once more. And it is most strange how alive the silver man seems, even if he is but a creature of metal, leather, magic; even if Jaffar has given him but one personal quality, one quality alone: that of obedience. And it is only appropriate that Obedience should be his name, the name the heathens worship this quality under. 

"Sarosh. That is the name you will now answer to."

Sarosh lifts his hand to his heart and bows a little. "To hear is to obey, Mistress."

Jaffar lifts the automaton's chin and admires him as he used to admire his own mirror image as a youth, but this is so much better, so much more fulfilling than a mere reflection. It is because he is gazing upon an improved version of himself--yes, he has dared improve on God's creation, the piquant arousal only blasphemy can bring now curling up his spine, licking at his groin. He has taken the liberty of erasing a few wrinkles, of straightening the teeth a little, of making the doll's hair a little thicker, fuller: and what surprises Sarosh hides underneath his robes, oh--Yassamin shall find out soon enough.

Pleased with himself, the image of himself, Jaffar chuckles, unable to resist the temptation of a kiss. He parts the red, cruel curve of Sarosh's lips with his own, and oh, he is so warm, his mouth sweet from mint as he now responds to Jaffar's kiss. And he does not kiss like a woman, no: just as his master has taught him, he now cups the back of Jaffar's head and takes his tongue into his mouth, sucking upon it until they are both moaning, Jaffar having to clasp Sarosh's shoulders to steady himself.

"That is very good, very good indeed," Jaffar laughs, and now he has an erection, merciful God--but what did he expect from a kisser as good as himself? Still, the scientific method requires further testing, and he is not called the greatest engineer in all of Persia for nothing. So he takes Sarosh's mouth again, again until the amount of soft kisses he had programmed in for the first phase runs out--approximately seven and a half to seduce Yassamin, he'd calculated--and Sarosh embraces him more forcefully, pulling him tight against himself.

"Do you like that, my child?" Sarosh purrs, his black lashes fluttering wickedly over his sparkling eyes, his lower hands sliding to Jaffar's buttocks and squeezing, squeezing. Jaffar cries out loudly--is this what Yassamin feels, each time?--and gives Sarosh another kiss, urging him to continue. Only to test the doll, he tells himself, only to make sure everything works as it should, in order not to disappoint Yassamin. And as he presses himself against Sarosh the way Yassamin presses against him when she yearns to be taken, Sarosh clasps his cheeks with violent force and begins to devour, suck, ravage his mouth. 

And just like Yassamin, Jaffar now screams, lets Sarosh drink in those screams, each and every noise now echoed by a click at the automaton's groin. As if Jaffar was as light as a feather, Sarosh now lifts him and wraps his legs around himself, his metal erection now rising against Jaffar's flesh and blood one, the metal expanding, clicking against Jaffar's flesh through their clothes. A design flaw, Jaffar had thought it, that the thrusting mechanism should make that noise; never did he realise how arousing it could be, reminding him of Sarosh's true nature. Not a man, not a man, not a man but a machine, capable of a ravishment harder than any living man could ever deliver, a fuck inhuman, superhuman--

"Please," he hears himself moaning. "Please," and Sarosh knows that word, too: he chuckles, _chuckles_ deep within his chest, clutches Jaffar so tight against himself Jaffar can't breathe. "What is it that you want, my sweet?" Sarosh purrs against Jaffar's ear, licking it, one hand lifting Jaffar's robe, exposing his buttocks to the air. Sarosh slides one finger, its tip slick with oil down Jaffar's back, down to his arse--and the oil capsules inside the fingertips were a brilliant piece of engineering, even if he says so himself.

"Oh, please, Sarosh--"

"Hmm? What is it that you want?" Sarosh asks, nipping at Jaffar's neck, rubbing at his anus as he spreads Jaffar's buttocks with two of his other hands. 

The finger enters Jaffar so fast he gasps--is that how fast he does it to Yassamin?--and his turban has come loose, now, so he pulls it off his head and leans against Sarosh, panting. "Take me," he says, his voice as soft as a woman's, his cock dripping at this, at the thought of playing the woman to himself. 

"To hear is to obey, Mistress," Sarosh says, spreading Jaffar's buttocks wider, and now the invading finger slides in easily, the warm surface of the living metal so much smoother than skin, spreading more oil inside of him. 

"God, God--"

But that is a command Sarosh does not recognise. "What is that, Mistress?"

"Continue, please, continue--" Jaffar huffs, pulling up his robe and clasping his cock. He wails against Sarosh's shoulder as the doll pushes a finger in from both upper hands, now, still spreading him with its lower ones: now Jaffar is only balanced upon Sarosh by those fingers, by his own impalement on them, his cock dripping in his fist. And Sarosh slips in more fingers, spreading his arsehole, spreading it the way Jaffar loves spreading Yassamin, digging his fingers in deep until she _gapes_ \--oh-- 

Jaffar curses loudly and bellows against Sarosh's robe. "I can't stop, I can't stop, I must--" his hand flies faster on his cock and he hasn't even been fucked yet, God, but he is going to come, come all over himself, his other self--

"Jaffar, what is that _unearthly_ racket you're making?"

 _No._ It's Yassamin, Yassamin coming down the stairs, and hastily, Jaffar flicks his hand to stop Sarosh. Yet he has forgotten that the gesture turns all of the doll's limbs slack: with a high-pitched cry, he falls from Sarosh's arms onto the carpet, into an indignant heap. 

Yassamin's eyes are as wide as saucers: she walks up to them, lifts her lantern and looks from the doll to Jaffar, pausing to take in the state of his undress, his monstrous erection. 

"Happy birthday, beloved," Jaffar moans weakly. 

Sarosh's mechanisms whirr to a halt and his head lolls to his chest. Yassamin looks at the doll up and down and again at Jaffar, then bursts into laughter. She heaves, bends double, has to put her lantern down because she can no longer stand up, curling up on the floor in a hysterical, red-faced ball. She looks at Jaffar and her eyes are wet from tears of laughter--she bursts into another fit of cackles, clasping her stomach, her entire body convulsing upon the floor. She hiccoughs, her buttocks jiggling under her nightgown, and now Jaffar has to slap them, ostensibly to shock her out of the hiccoughs, but more from annoyance than anything else.

"Disobedient wench, interrupting your husband's work like that," he grumbles as he sits up next to her.

She wipes her eyes and leans against his shoulder, still heaving from laughter. "I--I suppose you slipped on him while you were bathing?" she wheezes, clasping her hand over her mouth as she is interrupted by another set of hiccoughs. 

He can't help but pout. "You've spoiled the surprise, now."

She kisses his cheek and slides her hand down to his erection. "You seem to be enjoying yourself still, I see."

Her hand is so tender upon his cock, so sweet that he soon melts, leans back against her and sighs. "Do you want me to introduce you now?" 

"I thought I was interrupting a tryst. What little I saw, however, I enjoyed seeing."

He turns his head to kiss her softly; she is still stroking him and he lets her. Damn her for being so sweet, her every touch turning him honeyed, too. "Aren't you going to call me an old goat?" he smiles.

"You are an old goat," she croons into his ear, laughing, and his cock swells in her hand.

"I built him for you," he murmurs. "I was only testing him when you arrived, to make sure he would not hurt you. I mean it."

"I did wonder. Although you have always been such a vain creature I am not surprised you got a little... carried away," she says. She licks her palm and returns it to his cock, kissing his neck. "When I would much rather have _this_ all to myself."

"But now you have two of us," he says, raising his eyebrow. "Would you like to try?"

"You know my answer to a Jaffar's advances, whether he be made of flesh or silver," she says, flushed now from arousal rather than laughter. "But I would you made love to me first, husband. Warmed me up a little." 

He turns around to embrace her, and her flush has now spread to what he can see of her chest; he swears he can smell the sweetness of her cunny. His cock pulses in her hand; he slides her nightdress up to caress her thighs. She is quivering a little; she must be nervous--he knows how easily lovemaking can turn painful for a woman, and he would rather plunge himself on his dagger than risk hurting her. "I can warm you up indeed, wife," he says as he kisses his way up her thighs; moans as his nostrils fill with the scent of her arousal, oh, he knew it, he knew it, moans again as he buries his mouth in the wet sweetness of her cunny.

And it is now that his heart breaks at how much she loves this, how aroused she is by his gift without having even touched it yet. He can catch glimpses of her glancing at Sarosh from time to time even as he makes her tremble underneath his mouth, even as her thighs close around his head, as her fingers tighten in his hair. She is so wet her cunny drips down his chin, so wet he can easily smear his palm with her wetness, wetness to stroke his own cock with. Oh, he wants to be inside of her, but the way she now tosses on the carpet tells him she is more than ready for Sarosh. But his perverse love of anticipation makes him draw her pleasure out further, stretch it, so he tussles with her until they are both naked, until he has her pinned face down onto the floor and moaning underneath him, two of his fingers curling in her cunny, his tongue buried in the salt-sweetness of her arse. 

"Please, my love, please," she begs, her fingers dragging stripes into the carpet. Yet he does not give her mercy, not yet: he takes her with his fingers, his tongue until she screams and trickles onto his wrist, her cunny pomegranate-red against his aching hand. And he drinks from her, sucks out every drop, pushes his face into her and fucks his own cunny-slick fist, moaning into her. "You're so sweet, God, so sweet; I think I will keep you all to myself," he groans as he pulls back for breath.

"Please," she wails, the sound of her suffering so sweet it nearly undoes him there and then. With a snarl, he snatches his hands off her, off his cock, clawing at his own thighs. "Get up. I want to see you ride him," he commands, deliberately harsh, knowing she has reached the stage at which only Jaffar the brute can satisfy her. So he smacks her buttocks as she gets up, sending her onto all fours, yelping, smacks her arse again and again so that she has to crawl to Sarosh. 

When she reaches Sarosh, he snatches her up by the hair and kisses her, she kissing him back so violently it is as if she wants to crawl inside of his skin, rutting against him, and as she pulls back, her eyes are glazed with desire. "Take your pleasure of me," she begs, her lips wet from his cunny-sweet kiss, and he can't hold back a whimper, her smile going straight to his cock.

"I shall," he murmurs as he lets go, biting his tongue in order not to touch his cock, not to push her down onto her knees, to take her mouth until he comes and comes, God, his balls are so full now walking _hurts_ \--and he has to control himself. 

Therefore, he turns to the doll. "Sarosh." 

Sarosh whirrs and clicks into life, straightens out his back and lays his hands in his lap, then gazes at Yassamin with a placid expression upon his face. He blinks, and she gasps.

"Quite a good likeness, is it not?" Jaffar smirks.

She looks at Jaffar, then at Sarosh with a devilish grin on her face. "An improvement, I should say."

"Insolent trollop!" He smacks her buttocks again. "Sarosh, this is your mistress. You are to fulfill her every desire, in the manner which most pleases her. If you hurt her in any way, I shall dismantle you."

Yassamin blinks. "Does he understand threats?" 

"I doubt it," Jaffar murmurs, "I merely thought I would say that to reassure you." Damn her; she is far too clever. "If you need him to stop, at any moment, raise your index and middle finger and sweep them down, like so." Sarosh falls slack; Jaffar waits for a few moments until all the mechanisms have ground to a halt. "And you bring him to life again by making the same gesture, only upwards--there you go, that's exactly it."

Sarosh turns his head and smiles at Yassamin. "What is thy pleasure, Mistress?"

"I would see all of you, Sarosh," she says, boldly. "Show me the body you are to pleasure me with."

"To hear is to obey, Mistress." Again, Sarosh flashes his eyes and leers; Jaffar can hear, see Yassamin's breath catching in her throat. And the leer is not the only thing she recognises: she has seen Jaffar undress for her many times before, and he has made sure Sarosh replicates the arcs of his own movements exactly. It is a shame Sarosh cannot get up from his sitting position; the mechanisms required to make him move so smoothly are so complex Jaffar has had to hide most of them inside the dais he sits upon. But Yassamin does not seem to care, running her gaze over the now-naked automaton with approval. 

She sinks her fingers into Sarosh's hair and nuzzles his face. "You please me, Sarosh." And it is most strange that now Jaffar should feel a twinge of regret: has he created himself the ultimate rival? He must limit their meetings to once a month, just to make sure. But how could he hate the sight of this, being able to watch himself making love to his wife? The way Yassamin now clasps Sarosh's cock, the way she snickers as it starts to tick, swell in her hand?

"Does it grow any bigger?" she grins. 

Sarosh makes to answer, but Jaffar interrupts him. "I deliberately made him the same size as myself," he says as he brings his hand to Sarosh's cock, too, making him grow and harden in their joined hands. "Otherwise I might get jealous."

"Shame; to think of you riding one even bigger than your own..." she smirks, her tongue peeking from between her teeth. 

And that image makes his cock leap. _Damn._ He should have thought of that. But he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of being right: instead, he merely purrs against her neck. "You are wicked."

"But one can hardly call him poorly endowed," Yassamin says diplomatically, dropping a soft kiss onto Sarosh's lips. "I am sure you will be most adequate, Sarosh."

"Thank you, Mistress," Sarosh says, lifting her into his lap with all four of his hands and kissing her gently. "How may I pleasure thee?"

"I like the way you are holding me," she says tenderly, caressing his cheek. "Would you kiss me again?"

"With pleasure, my lady," Sarosh murmurs, cupping the back of her head the way Jaffar knows she likes as he pulls her into a kiss.

They make love slowly, Sarosh not penetrating her yet: all jealousy leaves Jaffar's mind as he now takes in the sights, the sensations, caressing Yassamin softly as she intoxicates herself with Sarosh's embrace. The silver seat upon which Sarosh sits is so polished he can see their sexes mirrored in it; Jaffar, in turn, is intoxicated from the sight of Yassamin so aroused against his twin, her cunny dragging wet stripes across the smooth, silver cock. His own cock strains from the need to be inside her, but first, he needs to see more.

"How would you have him take you, my sweet?" he asks. 

"Did you hear that, Sarosh? Your master is a most impatient man. But I would have you take me; I would have you take me indeed," she murmurs into Sarosh's kiss.

"What is thy wish, Mistress?"

With the wickedest of grins, she nuzzles Sarosh's face, chuckling deep in her chest, undulating her hips. "I would have you sodomise me, Sarosh." 

Jaffar moans out loud, as does Sarosh; she laughs as she starts to turn around in Sarosh's arms, obviously pleased now that she can turn not one, but two Jaffars mad with a few carefully chosen words. She stumbles a little, however: Jaffar laughs and helps her to lean back against Sarosh, to squat, to guide the tip of Sarosh's cock against her arse.

"Comfortable?"

"Not exactly," she says. 

Jaffar makes a little clicking sound with his tongue and she yelps: now Sarosh has lifted her by the thighs and clasped her arms behind her back, Jaffar holding her up by the waist so that she cannot move. Now she is poised above Sarosh's cock, helpless, Jaffar and Sarosh in control of how fast she sinks onto it. 

She glares at Jaffar. "Oh, you bastard--"

"Language." Jaffar hushes her with a kiss, loosening his grip so that her own weight forces her down onto Sarosh's cock, just enough to make her cry out onto Jaffar's lips. 

"Mercy, Jaffar. Please."

Jaffar nuzzles her face, breathing in her indignation. "Sarosh, you heard the lady. Slicken her up a little, will you?"

"With pleasure." And it is then that Yassamin shrieks, stares down at their reflections in disbelief: thick, scented oil now trickles out of Sarosh's cock, past the mouth of her arse, dripping down the silver in rivulets. Jaffar can only guess at how much of it is now pouring inside Yassamin's arse, his own clenching in jealousy at the very idea of being so filled with the warm, fragrant oil. And thus, it is Jaffar who finds himself moaning. "That's beautiful, that's beautiful, that's beautiful, oh--"

But even more beautiful is the look upon Yassamin's face: she is trembling, stiff from discomfort turning into pleasure as they carefully lower her down onto Sarosh's cock. When they finally let go of her, a little noise snaps in her throat and she pats at Sarosh's hands, Jaffar's arms; "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," she moans as her thighs quake in Sarosh's lap, as she takes him inside of herself fully.

And Jaffar is astonished, astonished at the way Sarosh now gathers her against his chest, how he rests her legs in his lap so that she is comfortable, the way he strokes sweaty hair from her face and hushes her with soft kisses. Is this how Jaffar himself looks when he makes love to her? Is this how tender he is, even when indulging in perversions such as these? And the way Yassamin now looks into Sarosh's eyes, dazed from love, so overwhelmed from her penetration--it is no different from those times Jaffar has taken her. Why would God ever forbid the creation of human figures if this was the level of enlightenment, the level of joy they brought to the artisan? Or perhaps it is exactly because Jaffar now fears his heart will fail, because he cannot bear it, feels as if his chest was being split in half by this love--his own love--he is now witnessing?

"Don't cry," Yassamin says softly, stroking Jaffar's cheek. He did not even realise he was crying. He cannot form words, only blinks, shakes his head.

"Would you kiss me?" she asks him, and Jaffar does, enclosing both Yassamin and Sarosh within his embrace, Sarosh embracing him in turn. 

"Now, pleasure me, husbands," she murmurs to them both, leaning her hands against Jaffar's chest as she begins to ride Sarosh. 

Jaffar whimpers into her mouth, and she but laughs and guides his hand to her cunny. "Pleasure me," she repeats, leaning back into Sarosh's arms, guiding the doll's hands to squeeze her breasts, to caress her hair, to move her ever faster upon his cock. She is beautiful, so beautiful Jaffar has to take a step back to adore her: her breasts heaving in the lamplight, all of her skin breaking out in goosebumps as Sarosh pinches her nipples and drags her by the hair into a fierce, wet kiss. And against Jaffar's hand, her cunny: plump and wet and sweet, dripping like a cut peach from between his fingers. Jaffar has to bring his fingers to his mouth to taste her, has to; to wet them in her cunny again so that he can offer them to her tongue, to Sarosh's. Sarosh cannot taste her fully, Jaffar knows this, but a tremor goes through the doll nevertheless, this being one of Jaffar's favourite perversions, something he has taught Sarosh to respond to. Thus, Jaffar pushes his fingers into Sarosh's mouth and in turn, Sarosh rumbles deep in his chest and thrusts violently into Yassamin, making her wail, her head lolling onto his shoulder.

She pants, grits her teeth, her hair flying as she rides Sarosh, begs for him to move faster, faster. "Why did you stop?" she groans at Jaffar as he ceases stroking her.

It is then that Jaffar goes down on his knees. "So that I could do this," he says, and leans close, blowing upon her cunny.

"Oh," she cries, her voice trembling, "husband, please--"

Jaffar leans close, closer, then spreads his tongue wide and licks not at her, but at the spray of fluids now staining the mirror. His cock jerks at the dirtiness of the act--oh, there is no use denying himself; he has to reach down to stroke himself. He flicks his eyes in a wordless signal to Sarosh, urging him to take Yassamin faster, faster, the noise of the mechanism now so loud it drowns out the lowest of her whimpers. And the noise must be arousing her, too, from the way her eyes widen, the way her arse now allows his cock in and out so smoothly, loose, wet, so aroused she has to be but moments from orgasm. And now it is not Sarosh but Jaffar Yassamin looks at, looks to for her release, her face contorted, twisted from the force of Sarosh's thrusts.

"Jaffar, Jaffar, please--"

"Mm?" He but murmurs, licking up the oil, the trails of her sweetness from Sarosh's sack, his balls so warm and heavy in his hand. "What's that?" 

"Please lick me, suck me, please, please, don't tease, I will kill you if you tease me--" but her words twist into a shriek as Jaffar mouths the root of Sarosh's cock, tasting their fluids from there, too, salt and must and oil. Her arsehole is red, wide, distended around Sarosh's cock and a terrible, cruel urge to see inside of her takes over him. So he lifts her from Sarosh's cock, shows her herself in the mirror, scarlet, wet, gaping wide. "Look at how open you are, my love, look."

She sobs, sobs as she sees her arse clenching, dripping with oil onto Sarosh's cock, wide open still. "I am going to kill you, I mean it; I am going to rip your heart out, Jaffar, I swear."

"You little liar," Jaffar murmurs, swirling his tongue inside her hole, and as its salt-sweet taste spreads upon his palate, he trembles with fulfillment; now, he is ready to fulfill her in turn. "Sarosh," he says, his voice thick from want, "the ridges."

She has no time to protest as Sarosh's cock ripples, a series of ridges springing up upon its surface as if it had been covered from root to tip with rings. As Sarosh begins to lower her upon his cock, Jaffar expects her to scream, but she doesn't: she is so overwhelmed from the sensation that she stiffens again, staring into the distance, convulsing upon Sarosh. And it is then that Jaffar brings his mouth to her cunny, takes her swollen clitoris into her mouth and _sucks._ He can't hear her noises over Sarosh's thrusting, but he can feel them, can feel their vibrations in her hips as she jerks on top of them. For a moment, he thinks to stop, afraid that they have gone too far and that they are damaging her, but the very next second she lets out a long, deep animal groan from deep inside her belly and sprays his chin. That groan goes on and on and in her fury, she tears her arms free from Sarosh's grip, grabbing Jaffar's hair instead, fucking his mouth with her cunny in revenge, screaming out her orgasm. And gladly, he lets her ravish his face, stroking his own cock, so close to completion himself.

"No, Jaffar," she groans. "Sarosh, pull him closer."

Together, they lift Jaffar up and Yassamin takes Jaffar's cock, stroking it frantically, urging him to push it inside of her cunny. "I want you inside of me. Please. Please finish inside of me."

"Are you mad?" Jaffar pants against her cheek. "I would not hurt you."

She shakes her head, drops of her sweat flying upon his chest. "I need it. Please. Try at least, please, please; I would have you both inside of me."

And it is the madness, the madness of love in her eyes that makes him relent: however, he commands Sarosh's cock back to its normal shape again, commands him to thrust slower. "I would not hurt you," he repeats, cupping her head, kissing her as he guides himself inside of her. She has never felt this tight and it must be uncomfortable for her, and yet he understands why she wants this: it is love, love rather than perversion that now guides her actions. It is the need she has sometimes spoken of in her letters to him, her need to have him fill her completely, take her so that she forgets herself, completely saturated with him, with his love. 

And fill her he shall. "My love, my love," he whispers onto her lips, heavy, slow with tenderness, no longer in a rush towards orgasm. He cups her face, and now he realises Sarosh is caressing him, too: now, it feels natural for him to kiss Sarosh as well, to guide her mouth to kiss Sarosh in turn. He makes love to them both, his heart swelling as he watches her relax, fill to the brim with ecstasy, twice penetrated by the man she loves most. 

"You feel wonderful," she murmurs, lacing her fingers with Jaffar's. "Wonderful," she says and the look on her face is what undoes him, the utter love and trust in it, and then Sarosh is stroking his back, his buttocks, his cock pressing upon Jaffar's so sweetly inside of her, and he is gone. All the lamp-flames merge into one pure golden flame, and as golden light he now surges into her, filling her, not a violent orgasm, this, but a soft glow that fills him with awe. He is warm with it, humming with it for long moments. And it is strange how he now imagines this is what it must feel like for a woman to come, for has Yassamin not filled him with herself in turn, made him love as she loves? He sighs happily into her shoulder, against Sarosh's cheek.

"Thank you," he murmurs to her, to his silver twin, to the Almighty himself. 

The next thing he knows is that he is upon the floor, upon the cushions that serve as his bed when he cannot leave his study. He is only half awake, yet somehow still hard as Yassamin rides upon him, all breasts and belly and buttocks and wet, heated cunny. The corners of his vision are blurred but he knows Sarosh is asleep, slouched upon his seat, and the last thing he hears is Yassamin's cry as she claims her release from him. And then her warm flesh becomes his blanket, her weight wonderful upon him and with it, she drags him with herself into the world of sleep.

***

When he wakes up, it is morning--yet he knows this only by the mechanical bird-shaped clock in the corner, and by the fact that all the lamps have gone out. The only light in the room comes from the djinn in the flasks lining the wall behind the clock; he gets up and lights a few lamps so that he can make his way to the washing alcove. He can hear Yassamin yawning loudly, mops himself quickly so that he can rush to her side. Who knows, she might break something, and he doesn't want a mutiny of djinn on his hands when he's this vulnerable, as naked as a babe. 

He makes to drape a robe around himself, but Yassamin drags him back onto the cushions by it, then pushes it off his shoulders, casting it aside. "Don't you dare," she sniggers and kisses him.

"You are insatiable. You have been awake for but two minutes, and already you demand conquest."

She glances down at his cock. "Says the one ready to invade before he's even awake. I woke up to that against my hip, you realise."

He laughs into her kiss. "Would you like to feel it against something else?" he says and nudges her thigh with it.

"In a moment."

She leaves to wash herself, and he gets back to his feet, humming happily to himself as he refills the lamps around Sarosh, lights them. 

"And a good morning to you, too, brother mine," he says, pecking a kiss upon Sarosh's cheek.

Yassamin surprises him with a smack of a wet towel upon his buttocks. "Careful, husband. You are giving me ideas."

"Really?" he says, pulling her into his arms and kissing her deeply for long moments, sighing happily into her mouth. "You did interrupt our encounter quite rudely last night."

"Then, let me make up for it," she says, and with surprising strength, she pushes him back until his back hits the statue. She flicks her fingers up and grins. "Sarosh."

"What is thy wish, Mistress?"

She looks directly into Jaffar's eyes, her own now dark, wide from shameless lust. "I would have you embrace my husband."

Jaffar is about to protest, but he yelps instead, flails as Sarosh lifts him up as if he weighed nothing and seats him in his lap. He struggles, stares at Yassamin, secretly loving his confinement. "You wanton little minx!"

"You are referring to yourself, I presume," Yassamin says, dragging a fingertip up his erection. "This has grown at least two inches."

And she is right: he is almost fully hard, now, his cock dragging against his belly as Sarosh clutches him tighter against himself. "Do not let him go, Sarosh," Yassamin says, and Jaffar takes this as his challenge to struggle further, to test the strength of the doll. Oh, but the metal, the magic is strong; he does not know if it is pride in his handiwork or the sense of being ravished that now makes his cock swell even further, makes him moan a little. But even more perverse is the delight he takes in the way Yassamin now walks around him, she taking in the sights, enjoying Jaffar's predicament--oh, he should be ashamed of himself, should feel unmanly for loving being subjugated so. Yet all those thoughts die as she flicks her eyes at him in approval, as shivers of lust lick up his spine, belly, lifting his cock ever further, filling it. 

"Well, well," Yassamin says, smirking, tapping at the tip of Jaffar's cock, at the arousal gathered there. "You are revealing a completely new side of yourself to me, husband. I must say, this is a most satisfying birthday gift."

"My most noble queen," he groans, trying to reach forwards to kiss her, but Sarosh holds him tight. "You would make me your slave?"

"Yes," she says, nodding slowly. "That would please me greatly," she murmurs, licking his wetness off her finger. "And would you not _please_ me, Jaffar?"

"God--" he shivers as she leans in to kiss him, dragging her nails down his chest. He has never seen her like this, but has dreamt of it--is he not the one being given a gift, now, since he has yearned for this for so long? His Yassamin, commanding him, turning him into but an instrument of her pleasure. He has wanted this so much he could cry, but he groans instead, drags his forehead against hers. "I would please you," he pants against her mouth, sucking at her lips in fervent prayer. "Mistress."

She nuzzles his face softly, grinning widely, her eyes as warm as honey, and he fancies he has never seen her look so beautiful, so happy. She brings her hand to his face. "Wet this," she smirks. "Slave."

And at that word, a helpless cry of joy bursts out of him, a pulse, two of arousal dripping out of his cock; his queen is perfect, perfect, perfect. With a soft little noise, he leans in to kiss and lick her palm, worshipping it, dribbling spit on it, wetting it thoroughly. And it's just as he had hoped: now, she brings her hand to his cock and strokes it, slick, tight, completing the circle of pleasure. It is with this caress that she owns him, possesses him, accepts him, and gladly, he is taken; they remain there in such fashion, silent for long moments, her brow against his, her breath his breath. 

"Prepare him, Sarosh," she whispers, never taking her eyes off Jaffar. "Prepare him well, prepare him slow; make him sweet for me."

And it is her face, her smile Jaffar now whimpers at, more than the feel of Sarosh's slick finger entering his body. "I love you," he pants against her cheek as he strains, shivers as Sarosh oils him, inserts another finger; "I love you, I love you."

She laughs and shakes her head. "And I love you, too, husband. Sarosh, show him why I love him so; make love to him as he makes love to me."

And with the softest of kisses, they are both moving him, caressing him until Sarosh's cock dips into his arse, Jaffar's thighs straining as he struggles not to lower himself upon Sarosh yet. "I have not been taken by a man in decades," he says, a little curl of fear licking at his belly. Yet why had he been ready to be taken by the doll last night? Perhaps because that had felt like simple masturbation, but now that Yassamin is the one guiding Sarosh, he fears she might give him pain without meaning to?

Yassamin smiles at him, then strokes Sarosh's cheek. "An amendment to my command, Sarosh: take him the way he takes me when he is at his gentlest, sweetest."

"To hear is to obey, Mistress."

And now, Sarosh clasps Jaffar against his body, taking Jaffar's cock from Yassamin's hand, tilting Jaffar's head back so that he can kiss him on the mouth. It is a deep kiss, Sarosh sucking upon Jaffar's tongue with the same rhythm he now uses to stroke his cock, making his spine melt with pleasure, making him drip in his hand. Very softly, yet with relentless demand, Sarosh dips his cock in and out of Jaffar's arse, slowly stretching him the way Jaffar stretches Yassamin, unhurried. It is slow, excruciatingly slow, and Jaffar clutches at Sarosh's arms, tries to lower himself faster, yet Yassamin does not allow him that. 

"Hold him tight," Yassamin reminds Sarosh, her voice low and warm from pleasure. That she should enjoy watching him being tortured like this, opened like this, oh--and now he spurts, trickles over Sarosh's hand, Yassamin's mouth quick on the silver knuckles, murmuring in delight as she laps up his arousal.

"Quite sweet, quite sweet indeed, my dear," she purrs, kissing the tip of his cock. "Sarosh, did he teach you to speak the way a lover does, the words every woman yearns to hear?"

Sarosh breaks from their kiss and he looks drunk, his hair dishevelled, smiling so that for a moment he is alive, real. "He has made me memorise twenty-four manuals of love," he says, nipping at Jaffar's neck, making Jaffar's cock jerk in his hand, ignoring his moans. "Which ones wouldst thou I used, Mistress?"

"The phrases that were not to be found in them," she says, shaking her head. "The ones he has invented himself. Allow him a few, see how he will respond."

And before Sarosh even opens his mouth, Jaffar's cock jerks again, from the way she talks as if he were not there, as if he were but a performer, existing only for his queen's entertainment. And it is he who wails, now, as at first Sarosh uses only hisses, murmurs, growls as he sinks his cock deeper inside of Jaffar. He is so full, so full, sobbing at how wonderful it feels, so unlike making love to a woman; the pressure, the swirling, incandescent pleasure inside of him claiming his body so utterly. Sarosh clutches him tight, rumbling against his back like some giant cat, making each and every vibration echo inside Jaffar's body, so that he can feel his penetration even more keenly. And now, Jaffar is rippling around Sarosh, become but that red heat himself, heat from his face to his belly to his cock to the tips of his toes. He swears under his breath, his head lolling onto Sarosh's shoulder--oh, he has taught Sarosh well, too well. 

"Do you like that, my girl?" Sarosh asks, innocently, his cock rolling inside of Jaffar, mimicking the cruellest, most maddening of Jaffar's own tease-thrusts. And it is at that, at recognising his own words, movements that Jaffar sobs against Sarosh's shoulder, sobs pitifully, yet Sarosh but laughs. "You little sodomite," Sarosh hisses, clawing his way up Jaffar's chest, his fingertips closing around a nipple, twisting. "Do you enjoy riding a fat _prick?_ "

Again, Jaffar wails, Sarosh now letting him sink deeper onto his cock. He writhes, howling as the head of Sarosh's cock slides against the spot that sends white pulses of heat through him, makes his cock drip once more. "Oh, you will undo me, please, please--"

"Should we let him, Sarosh?" Yassamin says, licking her palm, rolling it over the head of Jaffar's cock, leaning so close her lips touch Jaffar's chest, as if she were drinking in his tremors, his rapid heartbeat.

"Thy will is my will, Mistress," Sarosh purrs, lengthening his thrusts a little. "Shall I continue with the love-talk?"

"Please do." And it is then that she kneels and takes Jaffar's cock from Sarosh's hand, licking at its tip, grinning like a demoness. "I would drink from him, Sarosh. Do whatever it takes to bring me that pleasure, will you?"

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God--" Jaffar moans as her mouth hovers over his cock, as Sarosh lets him sink onto his cock with his full weight. "Take it, take it, take it," Sarosh whispers in his ear, tugging at his hair, "take it like the little harlot you are."

Jaffar wails once more, but Yassamin ignores him, chuckling against his cock instead. "Oh, Sarosh?"

"Yes, Mistress?"

"The ridges."

And with that, she swallows his cock into her mouth. And then Jaffar can hear no more: Sarosh whispers, growls filth into his ear but all words are drowned out by Jaffar's own cries, so loud they echo off the vaulted ceiling, mixing in with the noise from the machine as it fucks him, _fucks him,_ so hard the ridges give him pain. Yet he loves it, adores it, yielding to Sarosh, yielding to Yassamin, yielding himself to pleasure entire. He becomes but noises, a body ablaze, pounded into, barely able to feel his limbs as all of him exists as but hot flesh for Sarosh, no, _Yassamin_ to take. He cannot stop shouting, screaming, straining in Sarosh's arms, rivulets of sweat dripping down his chest, the doll's movements now so violent he cannot even thrust into Yassamin's mouth. He has to simply take it, take her mouth's sucks, the thrusts of Sarosh's cock, completely helpless.

And that is what undoes him, unravels his mind, yet he has to ask, the love she is now giving him humbling him utterly, enslaving him, making him crave her permission. "Please, my love, please, please, may I--"

She pulls back and licks her lips. "You may," she says and swallows him, looking up at him, and he has never loved her more. Even as he lets go, even as he screams, he keeps looking into her eyes, not daring to break the gaze he is being given, the grace of it, the mercy of what she is giving him through Sarosh. And Sarosh pounds into him, with the exact speed and strength he loves--and there, his balls, his full, full balls tighten so much that it hurts, tighten again and again and he spills into her mouth. And this time, his release is even longer than it had been last night: for three decades, he had forgotten how it felt like to come this way, from deep within his body, lightning flashing up and down his spine, and he weeps as he pours his very self in her mouth. 

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he sobs and he sobs, each thrust of Sarosh's sending more sperm out of his body, and he did not know it was even possible to orgasm this long, her each suck stretching the pleasure further, each ridge on Sarosh's cock wringing a tremor, another out of his flesh until he thinks he is dead, dead.

She is still stroking him as she whispers for Sarosh to loosen his grip, commands Sarosh's cock to smoothen, soften a little, and climbs into their lap. Jaffar wants to embrace her, but his limbs are too weak; he is still trembling all over, and if Sarosh's arms were not still around him, he would surely fall onto the floor. He tries to speak, but she hushes him with a kiss, embracing him instead, resting his head against her shoulder until his heartbeat slows down.

"Rest now, beloved," she whispers into his ear, and in her embrace he melts, slackens until he can see no more. 

***

He is blissful for hours afterwards: even as they exchange the study's cushions for Jaffar's own bed, he keeps staring up at the canopies, sighing in pure happiness.

"I must sodomise you again," she says, offering him a date from her own bowl. "Never have I seen you this happy."

He accepts the date and chews on it, the muscles of his face hurting from how much he has been smiling today. "Maybe he can take both of us the next time," he says, swallows. "I have given him four arms; there's no reason I couldn't give him two--"

_"Jaffar."_

He shrugs. "It's a possibility. Or I could build a second doll, I suppose. So we can kiss while they both sodomise us."

"You spent enough time in that accursed study working on the first one," she mock-grumbles, lying down next to him and resting her chin on his shoulder. "I am the one who should be jealous of him, depriving me of my husband so."

He laughs, turns to face her and strokes her back. "It was worth it, however, was it not?"

She smacks his arse until he yelps, still sore on the inside. "The new Jaffar I found last night was the greatest gift you could ever give me, you fool."

"Your fool is glad to hear that." He kisses her nose. "The new Yassamin was a revelation, too. When shall the two new lovers meet again?"

"I would have him serve me again tonight," she murmurs, tracing his lips with her fingertip.

He takes her fingertip between his teeth, growling a little. "Mm-hmm?" And at that, Yassamin jerks, her eyes flashing; he can tell that bite has gone straight to her cunny. He soothes her finger with a kiss. "How may I serve you, _Mistress?"_

She stretches beside him and purrs, dragging her finger down to his chest. "Now, that shall be a _surprise,_ I think."

"Why, you little tease--!" He tickles her until she yelps, until she starts tickling him back and they fall upon the bed tussling, howling from laughter. He pins her wrists down upon the bed and she laughs, laughs; he can't not kiss her. "Don't think your master has gone anywhere, my sweet," he says. "I still possess all the skills required to extract secrets from my subjects."

She kisses his wrist. "I look forward to it." She squirms a little underneath him, her smile widening even further as she sees what that squirming is doing to him. "In fact, I was going to ask you to _master_ me."

"Oh, have I spoiled the surprise, now?" he asks her in a pitying croon. But as she continues her struggling, his cock pulses with heat; he spreads her thighs with his. "Why, I could never have guessed that's what you wanted; never, ever."

"I have changed my mind," she says, wrapping her legs around his waist. "I would not wait until evening," she purrs as she rubs herself against him, her pupils widening with desire. "My lord and master."

"To hear is to obey, Mistress," he chuckles and takes her mouth with his. 

***

END

***


End file.
